


ficbits

by lostemotion (geckoholic)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pacific Rim (2013), Supernatural, Terminator Genisys (2015), The 100 (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), ワンパンマン | One-Punch Man
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/lostemotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parking space for commentfic and tumblr flashfic, mostly unbeta'd. Various pairings and gen, new ficlets are added as a new chapter.</p><p><b>INDEX: </b><br/>Chapter 01: Supernatural, Dean/Benny, untitled<br/>Chapter 02: Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, untitled<br/>Chapter 03: Supernatural, Sam/Ruby AU, untitled<br/>Chapter 04: Pacific Rim, post-movie gen, untitled<br/>Chapter 05: Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, Fire & Shadow<br/>Chapter 06: MCU, Clint/Natasha, untitled<br/>Chapter 07: Marvel 616, implied Clint/Kate, untitled<br/>Chapter 08: Agents of Shield, Skye/Trip, untitled<br/>Chapter 09: Terminator Genisys, Sarah/Kyle, untitled<br/>Chapter 10: The 100, Raven/Bellamy, untitled<br/>Chapter 11: MCU, Clint/Natasha, untitled<br/>Chapter 12: Marvel 616, Clint gen, untitled<br/>Chapter 13: Marvel 616, Clint/Bobbi, untitled<br/>Chapter 14: One Punch Man, Genos/Sonic, untitled<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Supernatural, Dean/Benny, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol detox in purgatory, for [fuckyeahdeanbenny](http://fuckyeahdeanbenny.tumblr.com)'s H/C week. I guess you could call it shippy gen, unbeta'd, and I should probably warn for non-graphic mentions of hell and Alastair. ([TUMLBR LINK](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/49877029347/alcohol-detox-in-purgatory-for))

The first thing Benny learns about the human that sent a ripple through Purgatory is that he's hard to pin down. In more than one sense; if Benny hadn't been able to smell him, he'd lost his trail several times. But it's even harder to assess what mood Dean's in, if he's liable to get on Benny's case for basically breathing wrong or be utterly indifferent to whatever Benny does or says. 

The whole vampire deal probably isn't helping, but hey. Not like Benny can do anything about that. Plus, friendly conversation isn't exactly the reason they teamed up. If getting out of this hell hole means putting up with Dean's erratic mood swings, so be it. In Benny's book, that means he's getting off lightly.

 

***

 

He doesn't notice the shaking until a week into their, say, partnership. It's subtle, and Dean's good at hiding it, like a wild animal trying to avoid alerting predators to its weakness, but Benny's been around the block a few times. He knows the shakes when he sees them. 

Dean's been on something, and now he's not, and it shows.

They're settling in for the night – monsters don't need sleep down here, nor do they need to feed, but apparently there's a different set of rules for humans – and Dean's curled up in front of a fallen tree. He's pressed to the rotten wood, eyes in Benny's direction but looking right through him, and Benny can hear his teeth clatter. With no other sound than the wind ruffling the trees now and then, it's loud, overly present, impossible to ignore, and at some point Benny's just had it. “You okay there?”

Dean's eyes settle on him, for a heartbeat or two, before he cuts them away. “Peachy. Never better.”

The light's dim, but it's still bright enough that Benny notices the sheen of sweat on Dean's forehead, the dilated pupils. Yep, no doubt about it. Withdrawal. “Yeah? Sure about that? Cause from over here you don't look it.”

“I don't give a flying fuck what I look like to you,” Dean replies, groaning and rubbing at his temple. “Mind your own damn business.” 

And Benny does, for now. As long as Dean's still able to carry his weight in a fight, he's right; it doesn't matter. Dean doesn't have to tell him squat. They don't owe each other anything. 

 

***

 

Problem is, Dean doesn't get better. He gets worse. 

Metabolism in Purgatory is funny thing; Benny himself feels hunger, sometimes, but it's more of an appetite than an urgent need. Feeding would be nice, but it isn't a necessity. Dean, on the other hand, gets desperate enough to tide himself over every few days with fruits of unknown origin or fire-roasted critters. 

Benny's never seen either around here before Dean arrived, and he chooses not to think about the implications of that. 

So when he sees Dean puke his guts out after a long run from a group of ghouls, he blames it on the food or the lack thereof. It'd make sense, Dean's system likely isn't used to such an archaic diet, and fuck knows what that stuff even _is_.

He only starts to waver on that opinion a few days later, when Dean throws up after a fight with a solitary werewolf and Benny gets a good look at him. He's pale, sweating and once again shivering violently; this isn't a rebellious stomach. Withdrawal symptoms should've lessened by now, but apparently they're doing the exact opposite. 

So yeah. Metabolism in Purgatory, hoards of scientists would have a field day with that.

 

***

 

They're sitting by the fire, huddled under a large tree. Dean's warming his hands on it, trying to hide the tremors that wreck his body now and then as a reaction to the cold, but in the past few weeks Benny's learned to tell the two apart.

Dean looks up from the flames in the wrong moment, catches Benny staring. “What?” he demands.

“You look like shit,” Benny tells him.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, screw you.”

“What's it been, man?” At Dean's raised eyebrow, Benny clarifies. “What've you been on? And don't try tellin' me you don't know what I'm talkin' about.” 

For a moment, Dean's quiet, gaze gliding away and focusing on some point a little distance off the fire. Benny's almost sure he won't get an answer, but then Dean looks at him again, shrugs his shoulders. “Been drinking up top, and not in small doses either. Some pills too. And something about this place... Cold turkey doesn't get any more fun when it lasts for weeks.” 

That's what Benny thought, and as if Dean's body wants to lend his words more impact, he scrambles to his feet right then and there, making it no further than a few steps away before he bowls over so it can expel a load of bile from his stomach in heaves that sound raw and painful.

 

***

 

The shaking and the sweating and the vomiting, Benny can deal with. Dean's business, no fun to witness, but Benny does his best to look right past them. He's pretty sure that's how Dean wants it, not the type to let someone hover. 

It's not so easy to ignore the hallucinations. 

They begin slowly, subtle. Dean sees enemies when there are none, which... he's stressed. It happens. 

But stress doesn't explain away what happens a few days later. It's one of the calmer days they had since they met, more wandering around and less fighting or _interrogating_ , and it's possible that the lack of adrenaline might be half the reason it starts when it does.

Dean lies down earlier than usual, before dusk, declaring the day a waste and announcing he might as well caught some shut eye. Not long after nightfall, though, he shoots away with a strangled cry, and the person Benny's faced with then has nothing to do with the man he's gotten to know. 

Dean's eyes are wide and bloodshot, he's trembling, panicked gaze roaming about without pause. When Benny addresses him, asks what's wrong, he doesn't react. He flinches, turns away, begins to mumble something under his breath and doesn't stop. Benny can't catch a lot of it, and what he hears makes no sense; Dean's talking about a building made of bones, something that sounds like he's reciting an anatomy lesson, a lot of _him_ and _they_ and the odd, strange name. He alternates between a warning tone that shoots shivers down Benny's spine and angry, pissed off ranting. Sometimes, rarely, it seems like he's begging, his voice desperate and strained. 

All night, Dean sits there at other end of the clearing, half-hidden by a couple of bushes that serve as his makeshift hideout. He either sneers like a wounded animal or downright _whimpers_ every time Benny tries to get closer so all Benny's seeing is Dean's silhouette, barely visible against the line of the plants, while he talks at the shadows in the dark as if he expects them to answer. Maybe he does. Hard to tell. 

 

***

 

It lasts for four days, and Benny's completely out of his depth. Every time he tries to approach him, Dean lashes out, and after he almost gets his ear sliced off by Dean's favorite weapon he gives up on trying. 

He wants to go, organize Dean some food or see if he can find that damn angel on his own, ask him if he knows what to do. And yeah, okay. In all honesty, he also wants to get away from the babbling and the fucking _wincing_ , but he's reluctant to leave Dean alone in that state. He's got no doubt Dean's still able to defend himself, but... It would feel like a betrayal, to turn his back now, and so he stays. He sits there with him, just as close as Dean will allow, listens to him while he rants and watches over him when he drifts off into a light, fitful sleep. 

The dawn of day number five has Dean more aware, but that's almost worse. He's still talking to people – things – that aren't there, but now it's more clear, better to understand, and pretty soon Benny wishes he wouldn't; when this is over, he should probably ask Dean who _Alastair_ is, but he isn't sure he wants to know. 

Benny almost doesn't hear it when Dean looks over to him out of the blue and whispers his name, confused and wary, like he's surprised to find him here. 

“Yeah,” he answers. “It's me.” 

Dean stares at him some more, eyes narrowed like he's not trusting what he sees, but then he deflates, shoulders falling and tension draining out of is body as if someone lifted a weight off of him. “Can you make it stop? You gotta... Can you keep them away? For a while?”

He sounds embarrassed to ask, desperate and ashamed of it, and Benny doesn't answer or inquire who _they_ are, what he's supposed to stop and keep at bay. All he does is nod, and then he inches over to where Dean sits, slowly, carefully, every move designed to appear as nonthreatening as possible. Once he's there, he takes Dean's hand in his and waits.

Dean keeps his gaze carefully angled away, like this isn't happening if he doesn't acknowledge it. But he squeezes back, sometimes hard enough to make the bones in Benny's palm grind against each other painfully. He's quiet, no more talking to imaginary tormenters, and after a while he shuts his eyes and falls asleep with his body slumped against Benny's side.


	2. Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after a night in a hotel. ([TUMLBR LINK](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/50357785624/dirtyovercoats-there-are-a-lot-of-reasons-why))

The hotel was Sam's idea. Well. Sort of. He suggested it, at least, although the horrified look on his face when Dean agreed made it pretty clear that he was joking. That expression only intensified when Dean complimented him on the idea and went on about all the things he could do to Cas in a nice, spacey, comfortable hotel bed in great detail, but... Hey. That's what Sam gets for sticking his nose into Dean's relationship. Sex life. Whatever. 

Of course, the gesture was completely lost on Cas, who only cocked his head at Dean when they got out of the car in front of the old stone-building with atmospheric lighting up front instead of neon signs and frowned at Dean, but this kind of morning after? Totally worth it. 

Not-quite-anymore angels have an appetite, apparently, and Dean's long past full while Cas is still busy munching his way through the fancy breakfast buffet. He's on his fourth plate now, and Dean wouldn't mind if he'd inhale another four, because the sight of him, slender backside clad in one of Dean's old T-shirts and a pair of jeans that's just a little to big for him, sitting loose on his frame and almost completely hiding his bare feet, is fucking gorgeous. There's no dress code here, the hotel's not quite that upper class, and the suit-and-coat? Well. That's a bit ruined after last night, and at this point Cas doesn't have enough mojo to spare to get come stains and wrinkles out of his clothes. 

Because, yeah. They didn't quite make it to the bed for the first round, quick mutal handjob that ended with Cas spilling all over Dean's hand and his precious trench coat. Thinking of it, Dean has to readjust himself, cock stiring with the memory of it as well as the eyeful he's getting of Cas' ass in the too-big jeans; they hang obscenely low on his hips, so low he's got to readjust them every few steps so they don't fall off him. That movement displays the muscles in his shoulders and back through the threadbare cotton in a way Dean totally doesn't mind at all either, and the whole thing is just a dream come true. 

Some guys may dream about their significant others dressing up in uniforms or tuxedos, but to Dean, there's nothing more perfect than the person he loves wearing his clothes. He discovered that particular kink in 8th grade, when Connie Beyers stole the shirt she peeled him out of half an hour earlier and appeared in the bathroom after they fucked, swimming in it but making him lightheaded with the mix of her scent and his own, combined in a way that stole his breath. It's not quite the same now, the clothes Cas is wearing are fresh and not recently worn, but the preference persisted. There's something intimate and secretive to shared clothes, and it's a really good look on Cas too. 

Dean watches as Cas picks up a Papaya, turns it over in his hand and then turns around to Dean holding it up, eyebrows raised. Nodding his approval ( _yeah, try them, they're good_ ), Dean grins at him.

Okay, so maybe not four more plates. He doesn't want to stay down here that long, it's way past time that they get back upstairs and find out if Cas' stamina can live up to his appetite. They can always come back here afterwards; breakfast buffet is only open for another hour, but there'll be another one around noon. Plenty of time; the room is booked for the whole weekend, and Dean might or might not forget to hand the trenchcoat and the suit to the hotel's laundry service like he promised. Really, who can blame him?


	3. Supernatural, Sam/Ruby AU, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All-human junkie AU ficbit, for [fuckyeahsamruby](http://fuckyeahsamruby.tumblr.com)'s Rubytuesday. Unbeta'd, warning for dubious consent due to coercion (not by Sam). ([TUMLBR LINK](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/50413240480/sam-ruby-all-human-junkie-au-ficbit-for))

The street lights are too bright. This part of town never gets dark, not really. There's always some neon sign nearby to illuminate your way. It may be food or porn or some cheap drug store that's open twenty-four hours a day, but something's blinking at you any hour of the day. 

Ruby sniffs, rubs her eyes. They hurt, and water, and all she wants is to go home. Back in small-town-Wisconsin, the only thing that lit up the sky were the moon and the stars. She knows she's romanticizing it, painting it in pastel colors in her memory. Growing up, all she ever wanted was to get out, leave, shed the confines of her hometown and go to the city so she can breathe life in deeply. It took her a long time to realize that all the city did was lashing her together even tighter, almost to the point of suffocation. 

She's cold. The flimsy jacket she's wearing is for the summer, but now it's November and already approaching the freezing point. All she's got on underneath are blue jeans and a tight, purple tank top, not weather-appropriate at all, but it'll serve its purpose. 

Sam likes his girls casual. He's not much for dressed-up whores in short skirts and push-up bras. He looked right past them when they tried to lure him in the old-fashioned way, eyes glued to the shy brunette he tried to borrow a cigarette from.

She can see their meeting point in the distance, see he's not there yet. That, on its own, isn't out of the ordinary. His timing has been getting worse lately, and it's possible that's her truly beneficial influence. Junkies don't much care anymore, after a while, about when they arrive where or if they do at all. The only reason she's always ten minutes early is that her life pretty much depends on this. 

_You have to rope him in, Ruby, honey,_ Lilith had said. _Prepare him, get him ready._ Ruby had asked what'd happened if she failed, and Lilith had gripped her hair and yanked it down, turned her head so that Ruby had to look up to her whether she wanted to or not. _You don't want to find out what happens if you screw this up, sweetheart._

So yes, you could consider her highly motivated to keep Sam in line. It isn't so bad, though. Sam's a good kid – used to be, anyway. Ruby's pretty sure a blooming crack addiction leads to having that title revoked. But he's good to her, has no idea she didn't hook up with him out of her own free will. He loves her, she thinks. 

And she thinks she might love him back. A little. Not enough to turn around and tell him to run as far as he can as long as that's still a possibility, but it's enough to feel warm in his arms in a way that's got nothing to do with the fact that he's a goddamn human furnace. Enough to look forward to seeing him, kissing and fucking him, rather than dreading it. Makes this easier and harder at the same time. 

She rubs her hands together, blowing into them, then hugs her arms to herself. She's shivering, so hard her teeth clatter. The place stinks like old grease and rotting vegetables, makes her stomach turn over funny. Maybe she should check her phone again, see if he called, has to reschedule because his dad's on his case again, but she hesitates. It'd mean she'd have to dig it out, expose her already numb fingers to the cold once more, and they just begun to get a little warm, wrapped up between her arms and her body. 

A car passes by, the light making her squint and look away. When she directs her gaze down the street again, she sees him. He's keeping his head bent, face further obscured by a hoodie, hands in his pockets. He's still ashamed of this, of being here, the secrecy, the drugs. Of her, probably. She knows he hasn't told anyone he's got a new girlfriend, and well, that's probably understandable. Ruby's not the kind of girl parents would be happy to see at their dinner table. And Dean, it's probably a good thing he doesn't know. From what Sam told her about him, he'd arrest her on the spot just for getting anywhere near Sam, wouldn't even need a solid reason. 

Because that's what Sam's family does for a living. His brother and his father, both are cops. Sam's breaking with that tradition, he's going to study law. Or, he was going to. Might not be for much longer, not if Lilith's plan to get back at the Winchesters works. 

He presses a kiss to her cheek, follows up with a real one, and when she turns to follow him into the old, vacant brick house – it used to be a slaughterhouse, back in the day, when this part of town was still populated by good, hardworking people – she catches the eye of one of Lilith's henchmen. The jackass winks at her, leering unashamedly, and Ruby hopes he won't get too much of an eyeful from where he's posted. 

Sam doesn't loose any time. As soon as the door closes behind them, he backs her up against the blank, filthy wall, has her zipper open and a hand down her pants before she's recovered from the sensation of cold stones pressed to her back. She's not quite done shivering from that and he already has a finger in her, stroking where it's sweet, sweet torture and making her quiver for a different reason altogether. 

But that's not the only reason he's here, and he takes a minute's break from biting and sucking on her neck to whisper, “You got it? I need, Ruby – I need a shot.” 

She nods, and he smiles against her skin. He's not desperate yet, still doing this for kicks and not because his body refuses to function without the drug. Unlike her, he could walk away from this right now and never look back. 

It's her job to make sure that he doesn't.


	4. Pacific Rim, post-movie gen, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pacific Rim ficbit to go with a drawing of Mako and Raleigh on a replica of Gipsy Danger. ([TUMLBR LINK](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/58727591906/toastyhat-outside-the-cars-are-beeping-a-song))

Okay, truth to be told? The thing weirds him out. It's a little smaller than Gipsy, not quite original size, and there are a few details, that... Well. He's not picky, but he's spent more time with Gipsy _the Jaeger_ than any other living person, and there are some things they just didn't get right. 

Mako loves it, though. And since it's the closest he's ever going to get to piloting with her again, he has yet to say no when she shows up in his quarters, face lit up with a smile that says she knows that he knows what she's thinking. “Do you want to go?” she'll ask. “Visit her?” 

He'll just nod every time, and she'll smile wider, take his hand and lead him into town. 

It's a short walk from the new research and recovery center to the monument. The statue can be seen from some of the quarters, but Raleigh deliberately chose one that's facing in the other direction. He's not in the habit of dwelling on the things he's lost, and he doesn't want the statue's well-illuminated head to be the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. 

The guards know them. Some of them are veterans – not from Hong Kong or Anchorage or Tokyo, but from other Shatterdomes, new jobs for old personnel – and those will just send them a knowing look when they march right through the gate like they belong there. Which, hey. If anyone does, it's the two of them. 

Some other guards are younger, newly recruited, haven't ever seen a real Jaeger up close. The looks they send his and Mako's way make Raleigh uncomfortable. There's hero worship in their eyes, and surely there are other people who deserve that more. He didn't do anything spectacular. He fell, is all. 

Mako will drag him along when she notices that he's slowed down, turn around, smile again, then nod her head towards the statue. 

And every single, time, once they climbed their way up and settled, looking up at the stars if it's night and out to the sea if it's daytime, he's grateful she made him come up here. He'll close his eyes, while she'll tell him stories he already knows anyway. Things that he saw in their Drifts, that he remembers like they happened to him. They'll take turns, next he'll tell her something he knows she's seen, and like that, hours will pass. When it's time to go back, he's usually the one who'll ask for one more story, and she'll bump his shoulder, chide him for being undisciplined and risking to show up late for duty.

But she'll tell it to him anyway.


	5. Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, Fire & Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashfic for the 5th anniversary of Lazarus Rising's airdate, based on the two words "fire" and "shadow as prompted by [nyokala](http://nyokala.tumblr.com). Set in S6/7, unbeta'd. ([TUMLBR LINK](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/61610614598/fire-you-dont-quite-have-time-to-catch-up))

**FIRE**

You don't quite have time to catch up, that's how fast it happens. One minute, you're making your way through creepytown with him, about to cram a healthy dose of phoenix ash down Eve's throat, and the next he cops to working with Crowley. To having done so behind your back for a solid year. Longer, if you count the time you spent playing house with Lisa. 

Fast forward some more, and he's cracking Sam's wall. He's hurting you, on purpose. Blackmailing you. Gives you an _if you do_ and an _if you don't_ , and when he doesn't like the choice you make, he puts you in your place. 

You've never been more aware of what he is, a powerful creature pulled taught between love and wrath, possessing both of it in spades. You just happened to be on the right side of that battle for the better part of three years, and now... You're not. You're an ant he could squash underneath his heel, alive only because he lets you. Or, as he says, because he can't be bothered. Because you don't matter. 

So no, you don't have time to wrap your head around it all. Not until it's too late, not until he's gone, and strictly speaking not even then. Because his last act before he walks into a lake and doesn't come back out is to go crazy and release another unimaginable evil for you to deal with instead. 

Once more, all that's left for you are regret and grief and a world that needs saving. 

 

**SMOKE**

He comes back to you just when you start to learn how life's like without him, and then it's to fix what he broke and fade right back out. That's just the way your life works, you suppose. The butt of one cosmic joke after the next. 

But you find that having half of him around – a subdued, crazycakes version that makes stupid jokes and plays children's games and talks to bees – is better than not having him around at all. Probably means you're a hopeless case, to think like that, but who cares. You certainly don't. 

He can't own up to what he did and he can't fix it and and you're so angry you could explode; meanwhile he's making you sandwiches and he flits away at any sign of trouble, can't make it through two straight sentences without changing the topic. But he comes when you call. He tries. 

And then he's gone again. You wake up in Purgatory and logic points to him not being there with you. He could be on the other side of the veil. He could be dead. But you know he's not. _You know._

This time, you won't wait for chance to throw the two of you at each other again. You're going to find him, even if you have to turn all of Purgatory upside down to do so. 


	6. MCU, Clint/Natasha, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween movie dates, for [be-compromised](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com)'s Trick-Or-Treat meme. Unbeta'd, no warnings. ([COMMENT LINK](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com/424762.html?thread=8366650#t8366650))

Clint doesn't do holidays. Natasha doesn't mind that; neither does she, and knowing what she knows about his past... she gets it. She thinks excitement about things like Easter eggs and Christmas trees is something that stems from positive association. Good childhood memories, triggered each year by festive rituals, and well, they're both not the kind of people who remember their childhoods too fondly. 

There's one holiday Clint gets excited about though. She's not even sure holiday is the accurate term for Halloween, and it's not like there's parties or trick and treating involved. No, Clint's version of celebrating Halloween is an old horror movie and a big bowl of teeth-rotting candy. He does have another one of those by the door, in case there's a ring and children asking for a treat, but otherwise it's not exactly a social event. 

The first time he asked her to join him, they'd know each other for barely a year. He brought her in during the winter, and the following October, he'd sat down on her desk and announced that he'll have a movie night and that she'd be welcome to join him. She almost didn't go, unsure of what he'd want her to do, what he'd expect of her, what his intentions were. But eventually she decided, that, if she could trust him in the field, lay her life into his hands, it'd be stupid to get suspicious over a movie date. So she said yes, and they spent the evening curled into opposite sides of his sofa, each with their own bowl, watching the very first Friday 13th movie. They hardly exchanged a word, Natasha didn't touch her candy, but by the end of it she'd felt safe and secure and more welcome than ever before in her life. 

This year, it's one of the Saw movies, and they spend the night curled into each other, sharing a bowl. Clint gets up twice to answer a ring on the door. Natasha still doesn't touch the candy. But when they climb into be together, later, she still has the same feeling of safety and being wanted without takebacks or expectations she couldn't meet. 

It's her favorite holiday too.


	7. Marvel 616, implied Clint/Kate, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeyes dealing with having caught their alternate universe selves making out, for [officialhawkeyes](http://officialhawkeyes.tumblr.com/)'s Hawkeye Squared Week. Not as shippy as I wanted it to be, except for mentions of aforementioned alternate selves doing the do. Unbeta'd, warning for a brief misunderstanding that mentions sexual assault. ([TUMBLR LINK](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/101519675761/clint-kate-ficbit-for-hawkeye-squared-week-day-7))

It's his fault, Kate's almost certain. She's not quite sure how, but whenever shit like this happens to them it tends to be Clint's fault. He was the one who volunteered them for the mission after all, both of them, since she'd already been hanging around on this very couch when the call came and... Yeah. Long story. She postpones yelling at him though, seeing how he's already looking... shell-shocked, might be the word for it. He's pale, wide-eyed, and staring at his hands like he's got some trouble wrapping his mind around what those hands just did. To her. Well, not his hands, exactly, and not her body, but pretty damn close. Too close for him, from the looks of it. 

Kate hates the multiverse. She really does. Even more so when Clint finally detaches his gaze from his hands, his eyes sway towards her, and the only word her brain manages to supply to describe his expression is _pained_. “I wouldn't. You gotta believe me, Kate, I... I just wouldn't.” 

His tone is downright pleading too, like he desperately needs her to believe him, as if what they just saw their alternate selves do with each other is some sort of crime he wants her to absolve him of. She's about to bump his shoulder and crack a joke, but sometimes even Hawkeyes possess a shred of sensitivity. “It's not like they did anything wrong. Or forbidden. I'm legal, you know. Or she is. We are. I don't really know how that shit works. And it, uh. Didn't like look like he was hurting her. You. Me. I mean... fuck.” 

Actually, Kate has absolutely no doubt her alternate self really, really enjoyed whatever that Clint was doing. She's never seen herself on the cusp of an orgasm, but if she'd had to guess she'd bet a considerable amount of money on it looking a lot like what they just witnessed. Sounded a lot like it, too. Pointing that bit of information out to her Clint might just do him in right now, though, so she keeps it to herself. 

“Yeah, but,” he starts, then his shoulders slump and he sighs. “I wouldn't hurt you like that, you know that, right?”

It's almost like he didn't hear a word she said, which, in all honesty, wouldn't be a new development. Clint's hearing is selective, sometimes, geared towards the things he can feel guilty about and neglecting anything that might convince him something is not, in fact, his fault. She reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, her signature move when she doesn't know where the fuck else to put her hands, but she thinks better of it at the last moment. Probably a bad idea. “I know. And that wasn't what he was doing, either. He didn't... That looked pretty damn consensual to me.” 

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but his eyes grow even wider. “What? No. I didn't think he was _forcing_ her.” 

“Okay, then what's the big deal?” Kate asks, inclining her head. He's not into her, that much she caught from the _I don't want to sleep with you_ speech he gave her last year, but his alternate self having differing opinions on _that_ hardly warrants the massive freakout he's currently having. “Why are you acting like we caught them doing something hideous?”

His eyes narrow. “Did you pay any attention whenever we talked about my love life? More to the point, about the way my relationships tend to _end_?” 

And ohh, now she has an inkling of where this might be going. “Of course I did. What does that have to do with anything?” 

“I don't want to lose you,” he mumbles, and she inches over so she can put an arm around him after all, ignoring the way he initially flinches away. Despite that, it's a relief when he relaxes almost instantly, lowering himself down a little so his head rests on her shoulder. 

“And you won't,” she assures him. “Ever. Plus, hey, multiverse. Radical thought, but what if that version of you is the one who's good at relationships? It's far-fetched, I know, but –“ 

He interrupts her by jamming an elbow into her side, which she retaliates for by flicking him upside the head. There's a brief squabble, and by the end they switched positions, his arms stretched out over the backrest and her head in his lap. When she looks up, he's grinning, and she _knows_ that look. It means he's about to spout something he himself realizes is bullshit and not at all funny, but she much prefers it over the haunted and guilt-ridden expression from before. 

“He does seem to know all my tricks though. I'll have you know that I'm a _fantastic_ lay. You're missing out.” His voice still sounds a little on edge, as if he's not entirely sure they're back to normal yet or whether this is crossing a line, but she appreciates the effort. 

“Oh, believe me, no one's called your _competence_ in question. I happen to be on first name basis with almost all of your exes, and none of them ever complained about _that_ ,” Kate says, even though they both know it's not like she's regularly going out on coffee dates with Bobbi or Jessica, and that the Widow kinda creeps her out. 

It produces the eyeroll she was counting on. 

“Don't even go there, Katie.” He wiggles his leg once, the one her head rests on, and she presses it down to make him stop. After a beat, he adds, “Okay, no, seriously, did Jess say something?” 

Instead of dignifying that with a response, she shoots up and grabs a pillow from the other side of the couch. He tries to dodge it, but he's got no chance. If there's one thing Hawkeyes share, other than the tendency towards self-deprecation and bad coping mechanisms, it's a perfect aim.


	8. Agents of Shield, Skye/Trip, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 AM dance party, was the prompt. It's... sort of that.

Trip never had trouble sleeping. Agent training, missions... doesn't matter, give him a flat surface to lay down on or lean against, and he's out like a light. Or didn't matter, he should say, because it's been two weeks since SHIELD fell and he can't quite remember the last time he had more than five hours a night, and more than two of them consecutive. 

Losing the ground beneath his feet might do that to a guy. It's funny, he never felt that attached to SHIELD, despite his history, but now that it's gone he doesn't quite know who he is and what he wants to do anymore. He'd had his path laid out for him since he was a kid, and now all of that is gone. 

He swings his legs out of bed and pulls on a t-shirt, walks into the kitchen of their latest safe house on bare feet, only slightly surprised to find the lights already on and the coffee machine running. “You know, when sleepless at 3 AM, caffeine probably isn't the wisest choice.” 

Skye wheels around, eyes going wide, but she recovers quickly. She puts a nonchalant smile on her face, arms crossed in front of her chest. “So what are you doing here, then?” 

“Getting myself a soda,” he says. “If you don't mind.” 

“Be my guest.” She shrugs and steps aside so he can reach the fridge, unearth one of the bottles he put in there after a gas station run earlier, now ice cold, just how he likes them. The water sends a chill down his spine as he takes a swig, puts goosebumps on his skin, makes him alert and fully conscious of his surroundings. 

Skye shoots him an appraising look, and he cocks his head. “What?” 

“Nothing. It's just, if you told me right now that you've been undercover in a soda commercial, I'd totally run with it. You know, one of these where they pour cold water out over the one who's doing the drinking? You'd totally look the part.” Her gaze makes a brief detour to his chest, and he feels it on his skin like a touch, rubs a hand down his shirt to get rid of the sensation. 

They look up at the same time, and their eyes meet. Skye's grinning. She takes a decisive step in his direction, but seems to lose her conviction at the last possible moment, because the movement is aborted in favor of turning and pushing the button to bring the tiny old kitchen radio next to the fridge to life. 

Old-fashioned jazz music fills the room, the kind that his grandmother used to love. Thinking about her, now, here, after what's happened, feels wrong. She would've hated what's become of the organization their whole family dedicated their lives to. 

He flinches involuntarily when Skye's hand comes down on his shoulder for a comforting squeeze, chides himself for it. That's what a lack of rest will do to him; he'll lose his edge. 

“Did they teach you how to dance at the academy,” she asks, “be a proper gentleman?” 

He nods. “Covert ops training did cover the basics. Why?” 

Her outstretched hand answers that question, even before she does. “Because I always wanted someone to teach _me_ , and now seems like as good a time to start as any.” 

Before he quite knows it, she's pulling him away from the kitchen, towards the large, sparsely furnished living room. Stands there, peering up at him expectantly, like she's issued out a challenge and it's his move now. What the challenge is, exactly, he's not sure, but he wants to take it. Damn, he does. 

He pulls her close, closer than he needs to, puts one of her hands on his waist and the other on his shoulder. “Well then, Agent Skye. Consider this your first lesson.”

The truth is, he almost flunked that particular curse, and he's a shit dancer. Trip sees himself more like a surgical instrument than a spy – he's the one who hides in the corner to slit the target's throat after someone else distracted them enough to let their guard down. He's swaying them this way and that, more improvised than skillful, but Skye doesn't seem to mind. She clings to him as they move across the room, smile on her face and hands curled into the fabric of his shirt. The song changes, but it's similar enough. So is the next, and he forgets to keep track of how much time's passing around them. 

It's her who brings them to a stop, her grip on him tightening until he stills. He's about to say something, albeit he doesn't really know what, figures he'll improvise, he's got at that, but she lays a finger to his lips as soon as he opens his mouth. 

“Shhh,” she says. “Not a word. You'll only ruin the moment.” 

He obeys, closes his mouth and swallows hard. His eyes fall closed when their lips touch. He thinks the music around them swells, but he might imagine that. 

Skye's grinning again when they part, the kind of grin that should be obnoxious and a little infuriating, but on her somehow isn't. Maybe that should've been his first hint; how much he likes to see her smile. But he's not very experienced at these things. Pretending to be smooth, and actually being so – big difference. 

She nudges him, entwines their hands, and he takes up their directionless swaying again, this time with her head nestled to his chest, smiling up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. 

Oh well. No need for him to be smooth. She's got this under control, he guesses. All he'll have to do is go along, and he finds he'll do so gladly.


	9. Terminator Genisys, Sarah/Kyle, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pregnancy scare for [this prompt meme](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/138344070701/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you). It's a little longer than my usual limit for things I'd post here as flashfic, but eh, rarefandom I have no beta for yet and written in like half an hours, so, flashfic. ([TUMLBR LINK](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/138367705901/terminator-genisys-sarahkyle-1200-words))

Getting herself up to date with twentieth century contraception methods isn't _quite_ the first thing Sarah does after they're somewhat settled in this new time, but it's up there. Even so, it takes them a solid five weeks to get it on, at which point Sarah is on the pill and they're also using condoms and some sort of cream to kill sperm; the whole nine, nothing left to chance. And it's good – it feels like coming home. In the following weeks, they have a lot of sex. _A lot._ All of it protected at least twice over.

So when it occurs to Sarah another month later that she hasn't had her period since they arrived in 2017, she blames it on weird time travel after effects. Stress messes up your cycle, right? Then try shooting yourself forward through time and killing your son from the future in an explosion that takes out a whole cyber tech corporation, running from the feds, and trying to stay off the radar in a time where everyone and everything is registered and constantly monitored, see how your body deals with _that_. There is literally a zero percent chance she's pregnant. They have been _so careful_.

That thought tides her over for another two weeks.

She tries to skirt the topic with Pops. Not outright ask; just score some more information on how John came into being in the original timeline, and whether or not there's anything in his database about the effects on the time machine on the human body. There isn't much, obviously – the technology was meant for Terminators. Kyle and her are members of a rather exclusive club, being human time travelers. Other than them, there's John, and well... that's not helping, and he wasn't really human anymore anyway.

So yeah. John. She knows his birthday, can calculate the date of conception, and those obviously don't line up. But does that really matter? Especially after they altered the timeline so thoroughly? Who the fuck knows. She watches her body closely, either for signs of her next period finally, finally announcing its arrival or, well, symptoms to the contrary. She does a home pregnancy test, three, five. They're all negative, but that doesn't do much to calm her down.

The next time Kyle inches up to her when they've got some alone time, Sarah draws back. The next time after that, she does the same. She gets wary to even touch them, the fear returning that even their proximity, the fact that they exist in the same corner of time and space, will cause her motherhood and his death. To his credit, Kyle is perceptive enough that this shift in her behavior doesn't fly past him.

 

***

 

They're sitting over cold pizza, looking for possible hideouts with a map of the area they're in spread out between them. She's pointing at a mostly abandoned industrial district, he reaches out to make another suggestion. Their hands brush, and Sarah flinches at the touch like she's been burnt. She watches Kyle's face fall, his eyes narrowed, leaning back with a sigh.

”You can tell me,” he says, although his voice sounds resigned and defeated, like he doesn't expect for his words to have any effect whatsoever. “If there's something bothering you, you can tell me. If you don't want this – us – you can tell me. I won't be mad.” 

No, he wouldn't be; that much she knows about him. It's part of why she loves him as much as she does. And it's that insinuation, the fear that she doesn't really want to be with him, that makes her want to tell him the truth.

”I'm pregnant,” Sarah says, then shakes her head. “I might be. Could be. I'm not sure. I haven't bled since we got here – this time, I mean – and I'm worried. I did a few tests. I spent nights reading on the internet. I talked to Pops.” Kyle's expression turns betrayed at that, so she amends. “Not about the possibility of a pregnancy. Other questions. Time travel and human anatomy.”

He stays silent for a few long moment, his face pale, eyes wide. Contemplating the same things she spent the past week or two worrying about, she suspects; the inevitability of fate, the likelihood of time bending itself into the same shame by other means every single time. _I always survive, and you always die_ , John had said. They thought they'd proved him wrong, but there's no being sure, no final certainty. 

Eventually, he clears his throat and reaches out to take her hand, and Sarah allows it; allows herself to find comfort in the gesture. “We'll deal with it. If you really are pregnant, we'll figure it out. You're not alone. Not this time.” 

Sarah nods and pushes her chair closer to his, close enough that she can rest her head on his shoulder. He puts an arm around her and kisses her head, and she exhales. The situation hasn't changed, but the load she's been carrying on her own for weeks now seems lighter, now that he's sharing its weight.

 

***

 

A few days later, they visit a free clinic together. The doctor listens to her with a stoic face, undoubtedly dealing with desperate, uninsured, poor young women on the daily. She then takes them to an examination room and Sarah endures the poking and the prodding while Kyle holds her hands with a tight grip that borders on painful. She doesn't complain.

The result is the same as all the tests she did herself: not pregnant. The doctor tells them this with an encouraging smile, squeezes Sarah's thigh before she rolls back on her chair and hands Sarah a wad of tissues to wipe the fluid from the ultrasound off her belly.

As fiercely as she wants to believe this, accept it as truth and move on, she can't quite bring herself to relax. One look at Kyle's face tells her that he's not running with it, either. The future looms over them, dark and menacing, and medical facts aren't quite enough to make that go away.

 

***

 

They have been in the future for almost three months when Sarah wakes in the early ours of morning with stomach cramps that are as agonizing as they are familiar. She almost jumps out of bed, leaving a bewildered Kyle in her wake; he rubs his eyes and slowly follows, stops short when she throws the bathroom door shut in his face.

Two minutes later she emerges with a grin on her face and a request for him to go and get her toiletry bag. At his questioning expression, she grins wider. “There's tampons in there. I'm going to need them.”

Sleep-dumb as he is, it takes him a moment to wrap his head around what she's telling him, but then he whirls around and runs off to rummage through their meager belongings, all of it stashed in a couple of duffle bags. His grins rivaling hers when he hands her the travel bag and then holds his hands up, retreating away from the bathroom door to give her privacy.

The future is still looming. They still can't be certain. But Sarah's going to take every small victory they're given, even if it's just her body finally getting its shit together and functioning normally.


	10. The 100, Raven/Bellamy, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the RavenBell Valentine's Day Kink Meme, the prompt was "Raven and Bellamy at some serious meeting/dinner and one of them starts getting really handsy under the table". I wanted to fill some more and collect them together, but, ah, porn muse is fickle sometimes. Maybe later. ([COMMENT LINK](http://ravenbell-kink.dreamwidth.org/1145.html?thread=36729#cmt36729))

After their tumultuous first meeting, it didn't take Raven long to admit that Bellamy _is_ in his element as a leader. He's passionate, charismatic, and people fall over their feet to follow him with very little prompting. He pays them back for that kind of devotion by caring, by risking everything to get them out of a pinch if they land themselves in one. That he'd never admit to it, doesn't carry it like a badge, is nothing but further confirmation. 

It took her a tad longer to figure out that he makes for a shit politician. In her defense, their first couple encounters with the grounders didn't exactly require a ginger solution. 

Now that they've achieved some semblance of peace and their dealings with neighboring grounder clans mostly consist of trade agreements and invitations to traditional political events, he's less at home in the role he somehow acquired by accident. Some part of him, Raven knows, takes pride in being valued and appreciated – the kid he once was, guard cadet and for the first time hopeful that he might have found his place in a society within which he expected to be discarded and forgotten, must be cheering with belated validation. But she's also aware that kid died with his mother, and then again in the heat and fire of the entrance into earth's orbit after he shot Jaha. The man he is now has no patience for polite conversation and grits his teeth through lengthy dinners infused with rituals. Being in charge isn't all that glorious. More than anything, it's often really _boring_. But he goes, because he doesn't chicken out of the more tenuous parts of leadership, and she joins him because they've long since stopped allowing the other to suffer quietly on their own, be it pain or sorrow or plain old boredom. 

This time, it's a spring celebration, after their fourth winter on the ground. They both attended their fair share of grounder events over the years, got the general procedure memorized. Food, speeches, cryptic performances in a language they all understand by now but that still isn't _theirs_ and will always feel alien, more food, another speech. The sun will set in the process, leaving the last couple of course to be served in the warm glow of torches on the walls and beeswax candles on the tables. No one is actually hungry anymore at this point, especially not after a hard winter that had everyone, sky people and grounders alike, tightening their belts. They sit in front of half-full plates and watch yet another singer climb the slightly elevated makeshift stage opposite the tables, flanked by performers in flowing dresses. A few people are suppressing yawns. Across the room, Raven catches an elder grounder official nodding off and startling awake due to an elbow to the side from her younger seatmate. It has her bite down on a giggle, and also decide that the serenity of the mood has dropped for enough that she can engage in a little evening entertainment of her very own. That's a ritual too, at this point; she can't always get away with it, but it's talked about and negotiated and she's got his permission, sort of, for what comes next. 

Nevertheless, he hisses when she sneaks a hand onto his thigh under the table and digs her nails in, just a bit. Raven keeps eyes straight ahead, watching the performance, doesn't miss a beat when the heads of the people nearest to them turn and Bellamy dovetails the hiss into a fake cough, apologizes with a nod. 

He doesn't stop her. He wouldn't. 

And so she props her free hand up with her palm and pretends to be taken with the singing and the dancing while she secretly, out of the corner of her eye, catalogues even the slightest reaction on his face as she slides her palm up his thigh very, very slowly. The way the muscles in his jaw tick when she moves her hand between his legs, just resting it there, waiting, not doing anything yet. She doesn't need to; he fills under her touch, anticipation quickening his breathing just enough that she notices. He, too, keeps his eyes straight ahead, leaning back in his chair with a wooden cup full of sweet grounder wine his hand. Getting comfortable, it'd seem like, to everyone else. Only Raven knows that he's shifting to give her better access. 

Every time they get to do this, she promises herself to draw this out, leave him waiting long enough for his reaction to fade, then coax it back again. But Raven is not a patient person. That kind of game is harder for her than it is for him. As it is, she doesn't even makes it to the next verse of the song before she lets her palm slide up and down the length of him with gentle pressure. He sets his jaw. She works open the fly on his pants; doesn't dare free him, but enjoys the hardness and the heat she can feel much better through just the flimsy fabric of his boxers. She presses her fingers to the length, more massage than proper hand job due to the constricted space, but what this lacks in physical sensation is made up for by the illicit excitement, the knowledge that they're doing something forbidden and scandalous and dirty. Soon she's ever so slightly squirming herself, and it's noticing what, finally, makes him crack a little smile, obvious enough that Miller, who's flanking him on the other side, shots him a look, brows lifted in question. Bellamy shakes his head and smiles, a silent, _all good, man, nothing going on here_ , and Raven has to use every ounce of discipline she posses not to burst out with laughter. Amusement turns back to something else entirely, though, when he turns his head to meet her eyes, and even though his expression doesn't change, she sees the the intensity in his gaze, focused on her, just her, like nothing else exists. It doesn't miss its mark, reminiscent of the way he'd look at her if they were alone, curled close, her hands on him with nothing to separate or distract them. It's him teasing back as much as it is a promise, that they'll steal the time later to finish this, either back in their travel tent or in an alley of this village, up against an empty hut or a tree. She isn't cruel enough to finish him off right here; they both know she could, and that she'd have his permission for that too, but there's nothing sexy to her about the thought of him sitting there with wet, come-stained boxers. She widely prefers the alternative; every performance comes with standing ovations, everyone rising as the plates for the next course are served, and that's what she's aiming for. She keeps up her attentions right until the next note, carefully managed so he won't get off, and only then removes her hand and does his fly back up. 

The applause for the performance swells, and there are few things more exciting and amusing to her than Bellamy moving his hand in front of his crotch as he stands, forced to forgo clapping because his hands are busy subtly covering his erection, and shooting her look that's half a glare and half meeting her challenge, taking up the gauntlet and throwing it back at her. He'll have her gasping and clawing at his back the first change he gets, her turn to bite her lip and be quiet, restrain herself when she prefers to be vocal about her pleasure. 

She holds his gaze and has to swallow another laugh when he winks at her before turning his attention to the stage, watching the singer and her entourage bow and leave the stage, subtly widening his stance. 

This dinner can't be over soon enough.


	11. MCU, Clint/Natasha, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of two quickies written for the three sentence ficathon over at [be-compromised](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com). The prompt was _poetry in motion_. Unbeta'd, no warnings. ([COMMENT LINK](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com/502336.html?thread=9715264#t9715264))

They have a great many things in common, a lot of them obvious -- humans amongst gods and miracles, the best at their trade, weapons made fragile mortal flesh -- but sometimes Natasha thinks that the hidden similarities are more important than that. The way they both grew up in an environment that was hostile and threatening; the resilience they learned from it; the fact that they both know how to use their bodies in a fight in a way others yield their weapons. She watches Clint swing down from his outlook point and angle himself to shoot even as he falls, catches him watching her when she wraps herself around an assailant and brings him down with little else than skill and strength, and she knows he recognizes that too -- poetry in motion, a literal dance with death.


	12. Marvel 616, Clint gen, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the second quicky, also written for the three sentence ficathon over at [be-compromised](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com). The prompt was _black eye_. Unbeta'd, warning for implied childhood abuse. ([COMMENT LINK](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com/502336.html?thread=9745216#t9745216))

The world is still standing, and Clint's braced on the porcelain of his sink, afterwards, looking at his face in the smudged mirror. There's a gash on his forehead, more cuts along his cheek, and a dark red and purple black eye to top it off; his whole face hurts, a dull pain like the sour ache of a strained muscle, and it's welcome and familiar. From childhood to adulthood, through good times and bad, circus and thievery and avengening, this sight, this feeling, have always been his constant -- and he's got the scars to prove he made it through all of that, for whatever it's worth.


	13. Marvel 616, Clint/Bobbi, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First fill of, uh, three or four I think, for [this prompt meme](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/142028891706/send-me-characters-and-a-letter-and-ill-write). The prompt was "a deafening sound". ([TUMLBR LINK](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/post/142032009766/for-your-meme-r-clint-barton-d))

Bobbi is the first of his fellow Avengers who braves visiting him, after. Marches straight past a grumbling Barney, dodges all his attempts to throw her out on the grounds that Clint's not ready to see anyone. She's always been fearless, his Birdie, and Barney'd never be a match for her anyway. 

She sits down right in Clint's line of sight. Says something he only catches the bare gist of – because his lipreading is still rusty – before she visibly clicks her tongue and shakes her head. Then she switches to sign, and it's stilted and awkward but he still makes out what she's trying to say. 

_Are you okay?_ She briefly lowers her hands, rolling her eyes at herself. _Wait. Of course you're not._ Her smile is full of love and sympathy, and he has to look away, until he remembers that they won't be able to communicate if can't see her hands, her face. 

_Used to it,_ he signs back, and she inclines her head, expression sobering. 

He isn't, not anymore. She knows that, and he knows that she does. The last time, it hasn't been a new thing for him either, and yet he struggled. She'd been by his side back then, learned to sign for him, spent entire nights researching deafness and treatment options. Clint still recalls the sound of the sonic arrowhead reverberating through his head, the sensation of it, and the moment his world lost all sound for the second time. He never once regretted that decision. 

_You will be_ , she replies, and then reaches out and takes his face between her hands, her grip firm but gentle, thumbs brushing the skin at his jaw. She leans in and presses a kiss to his temple; sits back, and says it out loud, very slowly, so he can read it off her lips. “You will be okay.” 

And even though Bobbi's officially smarter than him and usually right in the end, he doesn't believe her, not yet. It'll be awhile until he'll be able to consider the possibility.


	14. One Punch Man, Genos/Sonic, untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in like 15 minutes for fandomgiftbox, for the rather straightforward request of _Sonic and Genos have coffee, or fuck._ I have never written these two before, or this fandom, so... heeeeeey. ([COMMENT LINK](https://fandomgiftbox.dreamwidth.org/34677.html?thread=275317#cmt275317))

The beautiful thing about villainy, as a concept, is that its rules bend pretty far. And they bend even further when a certain... curiosity is involved. 

Yes. Okay. Fine. Curiosity, in this case, means that Sonic _really_ wanted to fuck the cyborg. He was somewhat unprepared for the aforementioned cyborg to agree, and it took some wooing, but here they are. 

The whole affair takes more time than a regular hookup; preparation, relaxation, and they needed a few tries to get the position right. Genos is fully equipped, in terms of anatomy, but his dick is as artificial as the rest of him. It's hard, solid, unyielding; it's like being speared by a large toy, but with the added bonus of a warm body on top of him. Well, relatively warm. Genos's body too lacks the squishy softness of normal human flesh, although it isn't cold either. He settles between Sonic's legs, spread and drawn up, and dips his fingers to test the spread of his hole before he pushes in – he doesn't trust Sonic with much, and that list, apparently, includes trusting Sonic with his own body and well being. Which is a smart move, all in all, because while out there in the world, in a fight, Sonic consists of nothing _but_ self preservation instincts, they pretty much fade out on him when it comes to pleasure. 

He whines, on the first push inside, a long and drawn-out sound that might sound like pain, but isn't quite that. It takes some getting used to, but once the burn recedes the fullness is amazing. He's learned not to nag, wiggle or beg; Genos face, even though as mechanical and not-quite-human-anymore as the rest of him, actually displays a great deal of emotion, and right now he wears an expression of intense concentration and restraint. It isn't until he's fully sheathed, has taken a few moments to make sure he doesn't cause any undue discomfort, that he starts to thrust. That's the point where Sonic's upper body springs forward, arms wrapping around his legs, and he starts moaning like his life depends on conveying just exactly how much he's enjoying himself. It's also a preventive measure; if he doesn't distract himself like this, he might start touching, run his fingers down the mechanical back, curl his hand around the swell of what passes as Genos's ass, and while he's found out Genos doesn't mind... well, too much contact is dangerous. Contact transports emotion, and the last thing Sonic needs is for this to get messy. So he'll either fist the sheets or hold on like this, while Genos makes a science of scrapping past his prostate _every single time_ he fucks into him, driving him straight out of his mind. 

They never last long. Or Sonic does, for that matter – there's no come involved on his sometime-lover's end, and Sonic hasn't quite dared to ask where he orgasms yet, takes any enjoyment out of this beyond giving someone pleasure. He's the kind of heroic idiot who'd get off on that, and it'd suck some of the fun out of this for Sonic, if he'd were to found out that Genos doesn't even feel anything resembling physical pleasure. 

After, they have a cup of imported italian roast, freshly ground. Sonic will perch on the edge of his chair, not quite ready to fully sit down again yet, and Genos will prattle on about things that Sonic is neither interested in nor listens to all that intently. They don't have much in common while dressed, and each time Sonic is convinced it's not going to happen again, that's it, Genos had enough of this our regained whatever parts of his moral code he bent in order to fuck someone from the other team. 

And each time, he comes back anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> [lostemotion@tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/)


End file.
